


Undone: Done

by fivebluesocks



Series: Undone [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Consensual Underage Sex, Dean is Eighteen Years Old, Frottage, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pre-Series, Sam is Fourteen Years Old, Underage Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Underage Kissing, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fivebluesocks/pseuds/fivebluesocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not over until it's over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undone: Done

True to his word, Sam's still mad at Dean.

Most of the time he acts normal to Dean in front of Bobby and John. All little brother, following Dean around, watching him work on a car or sitting on the couch with him with the tv on.

But suddenly he'll get this look in his eyes, dark and narrow, and he'll stomp away to the bedroom to busy himself with a paperback and a notebook.

The mood changes make Dean's head spin, sometimes.

 

"No," Sam says, scowling down at his book, when Dean asks him if he wants to go to town.

And "Will you pass the pepper, Bobby?" Sam asks at the dinner table when Dean's sitting right next to him, pepper shaker obviously within his reach. Dean takes it when Bobby picks it up and passes it to him, but Sam resolutely avoids his eyes and waits until Dean finally sets it down in front of him to pick it up.

John's noticed, because how could he not?

"Are you and Sammy fighting?" he asks Dean.

"I don't know, I guess," Dean says.

"You boys need to work it out. I wouldn't abide it on a hunt, and I won't abide it now. Straighten yourselves out before I have to straighten you out myself."

"Yes sir," Dean says, wondering how in the world he can manage it when Sam will barely talk to him about it.

 

"Why aren't you talking to me today?" Dean asks, sitting on his bed and watching Sam read.

Sam shrugs, frowning.

"Dad's noticed, you know. He says we need to quit fighting."

"We're not fighting," Sam says.

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Okay. But you've got to stop acting like that in front of Dad."

Sam turns to look at him, still frowning. "I'll try. But sometimes I look at you and I remember and it all hits me, the way you treated me, and I can't help it. I just get so _angry_ , he says.

"You know I didn't mean it," Dean says softly. "You know I'm sorry."

It's Sam's turn to sigh. "I know, but still. I try to be okay, you know? It's just hard sometimes."

"Yeah," Dean says. "But maybe just, tone it down or something."

Sam nods, then goes back to reading.

 

No matter how he treats Dean during the day, though, his anger seems to slip away by the time they go to bed.

Sam's started sneaking under his covers in the dead of night, pressing his warm little body up against Dean's and taking kisses from him while he's still half-asleep.

"Hi," Sam will say quietly once Dean's eyes are open. He doesn't apologize for the way he'd acted that day, if he'd acted up at all, and Dean doesn't expect it. Sam's anger is the least of the punishment he deserves.

He lets Dean kiss him like they'd agreed. It's soft and reserved, Sam still holding back as if he fears Dean will hurt him again, before he melts into it, pressing into Dean's hand when Dean brings it up to caress his cheek and wrapping his arms around Dean's neck. The time goes by unnoticed until they draw apart, hearts beating hard and lips sore, then Sammy slips away back to his own bed, leaving behind him a warm spot that quickly turns cold.

Tonight, Sam's kissing the corner of Dean's mouth, his hand stroking the short hair at the back of Dean's head when Dean comes awake.

"Hi," Sam says.

He's been normal all day, today, and he's especially enthusiastic when he starts in on Dean again, opening his mouth against Dean's in hot, fervent kisses.

"Hi, Sammy," Dean whispers with a grin when they come up for air. Sam grins back at him, his teeth white against his tanned face in the moonlit room, then straddles his big brother, taking Dean's face in his hands and kissing him again. He's already hard, the material of his basketball shorts slippery and silky between the stiff length of him and Dean's belly.

Dean reigns in his first impulse, which is to grab Sammy's ass and encourage him to thrust. Heat is tightening his groin, blood filling his cock, and he's overcome with a rush of lust for his little brother. Sighing, Sam kisses Dean, starts rolling his hips, and Dean's hard pressed to say no to him.

Now Sam's leaning up to sit on Dean's lap, his hips pumping, thrusting himself against Dean's half-hard, heavy dick.

Dean tries to keep his lust-addled mind on the straight and narrow.

"Sammy," Dean warns, but Sam doesn't listen. He just keeps fucking against him, the the tight muscles of his belly flexing and relaxing as they slide sensually together, and it's near impossible to say no to that.

So Dean doesn't, not yet. Making out is what this is, not even second base, and it's only a little more than 'just kissing.' As long as he doesn't put his hands on Sam they'll be fine.

Then Sam puts Dean's hands on him anyway. He reaches down to clasp Dean's hands, then spreads them on his chest, rubbing Dean's fingertips against his soft pink nipples. They grow hard immediately under Dean's fingers, and Dean holds back a groan.

Sam doesn't hold one back, though. He closes his eyes, his face flushed and his pink bottom lip caught between his teeth.

"Dean," he whispers, riding him, and Dean can't take his hands off of him. He's been sober for more than a week, but it's like he's drunk, intoxicated by the slide of Sammy's muscles, the feel of Sammy's baby-soft skin, the quiet noises he's making, barely loud enough to be heard over the fan.

Dean sits up and covers Sam's lips with his own, swallowing Sam's soft moans and sighs, one hand roaming his smooth back and the other rolling and pulling at his little nipples.

"Oh," Sam groans, riding him harder, sliding his cheek alongside Dean's and breathing heavily into his ear.

Rolling his hips against Sam's, Dean kisses the side of his face, the corner of his jaw, then dips down to run his lips against Sam's long neck. Dean licks, and Sam's hands clamp down on his shoulders, shuddering.

"Please," Sam whispers, baring more of his neck to Dean. It reminds Dean of those hot, drunken first times, and Dean groans and leans in to taste his skin.

This is the first time anyone's ever kissed Sam's neck, and it turns Dean on to no end to know it. He was Sam's first kiss, his first orgasm, his first hand job, and he'll be so much more. He'll be able to teach him, show him everything. Sam's a blank slate, and he's all Dean's.

Groaning, he lays wet, open-mouthed kisses down to Sam's collarbone and then back up, thumbing small circles around Sam's nipples, and Sam moans as he rides him, slim thighs tightening and relaxing around Dean's hips, breath quickening.

Dean scrapes his teeth along the tendon in Sam's neck and Sam seizes up. He grinds down against Dean's stiff, sweetly aching dick, digs his snort fingernails into Dean's shoulders, and comes between them with a high, shaky whine that makes Dean shudder with desire for him.

He wants to get Sam naked. He wants to see his cock with its sparse patch of hair, wants to run his hands over Sam's tight stomach and bony hips and round little ass, wants to clean Sam off with his tongue, but he can't. Now that Sam's coming down from his orgasm, his body no longer a hot, squirming thing against Dean's, Dean's head begins to clear.

Sam slumps against him, a hundred-twenty pounds of dead weight, and Dean smiles.

"Good, Sammy?" he asks.

"Yeah," Sam sighs.

Dean rubs his back and kisses his neck, his collarbone, the point of his shoulder.

"What about you?" Sam asks sleepily. He gives his hips a slow roll, and Dean bites back a groan.

"I'm fine," Dean says, and Sam gives him an "Mm," in reply, slumping lower in Dean's arms.

When Sam walks out to go to the bathroom, Dean strips his boxers down to his thighs and takes himself in hand, and he comes in seconds to the ghost feel of Sam riding him. He's already cleaned himself off with a sock and is halfway asleep when Sam comes back to the bedroom.

"Night, Sammy," he says.

"Night, Dean," Sam says, and he leans over Dean's bed to take one more kiss.

 

Things are easier after that. Sam stops giving him the cold shoulder and storming out of rooms.

John seems to notice; at least that's how Dean takes it when John stands in the doorway of the living room, watching the two of them watch tv together, then claps Dean on the shoulder and walks out without a word.

Sam's acting normal again. Normal, except for the long, heavy-lidded glances he shoots Dean when nobody's looking, and the kisses he steals when Bobby and John step out into the yard or make a run into town together.

Their late-night makeout sessions continue, the intensity more than just kissing, but low enough that Dean's not entirely uncomfortable about it later. Sam usually ends up rubbing himself off against Dean's thigh or lap, and Dean takes care of himself when Sam goes to wash up, unable to take his mind off the perverse, filthy things he'd like to do to his little brother.

Things feel really good. There are no leads on the demon, so John takes a part-time job with a mechanic that Bobby knows. And Sam's happy, like he'd been for those few golden weeks in Georgia, and it does Dean's heart good.

Sam's even happier when he learns he'll be starting school here this semester. He's spent enough time at Bobby's that he's gone to school here enough to actually know some of the kids that will be attending Sioux Falls High.

They also have the money to get Sam new school supplies. They pick them up at Wal-Mart, and Sam looks at the spiral notebooks and pencil cases and binders like Dean would look at cherry muscle cars, the little nerd. Dean splurges with the money John had given him. He gets Sam all the supplies he wants, then he gets Sam a few t-shirts and a pair of jeans that actually fit him. While Sam's in the changing room, he slips off to the electronics section and, armed with the music store employee's advice, grabs him a Pearl Jam tape.

It's almost like spoiling Sam, and Dean wishes he were able to do it more often, especially when he sees Sam's face light up when they get into the car and Dean pulls the tape out of one of the plastic bags and hands it to him.

Sam is grinning, the wind blowing through his hair and Pearl Jam blaring raucous and raw through the speakers. At a stop light, he takes Dean's hand and smiles up at him so sweet it makes Dean's face heat with a mix of pleasure and embarrassment.

They hit the mall for arcade games and lunch with the last of John's money. They walk amongst the strangers, talking quietly, in their own little bubble.

They can't hold hands, not that Dean would want to; public displays of affection feel a little too dainty for a pair of bonafide killers. But Sam will brush him with his elbow and smile up at him, and Dean will bump him back, and that's close enough.

At the arcade, Sam stands close, watching Dean beat some snot-nosed kid at Mortal Kombat, his hip pressed against Dean. The warmth of Sam's leg against his gives Dean a shiver of secret thrill, knowing that last night he'd kissed Sam until Sam had come against his hip, and here they are now, all innocent brothers playing in the arcade.

"Sam?" he hears from behind him, and then the warmth of Sam's hip is gone.

"Hey, Jeff!" Sam says, excitement in his voice. Dean glances over his shoulder, then back to the game to get in a cheap win before he turns away for good.

Jeff and Sam are talking animatedly, and when Sam sees that Dean's paying attention, he introduces them.

"Jeff, this is my brother Dean." He gives Dean a quick, bright smile. "Dean, this is Jeff. I've actually known him since third grade, isn't that crazy?"

"Yeah, that's cool," Dean says. Sam's grin is contagious.

"Can he have lunch with us?" Sam asks.

"Sure thing, Sammy," Dean says, catching Sam's head in the curve of his elbow and ruffling his hair.

Basically, anyone who knows Sam likes him. Dean can tell Jeff's excited to see him, to be able to talk to him, and it makes him proud of his little brother. He's a smart, decent, good kid, despite all they've been through.

"Biggerson's okay?" Dean asks, praying that they won't ask for pizza. But Sam's deep in conversation with Jeff, and he only pays attention long enough to say, "Sure."

They grab their burgers and take a booth, Dean opposite the other two. Dean eats his in silence, content to let the boys talk.

They go on about music and movies, and Dean doesn't know how Sam knows so much about video games, but they geek out over them anyway. Jeff's personable and a little nerdy, and he acts so damn _young_.

Dean looks back and forth between them. There's Sam, sitting there being goofy with another high school freshman, in a too-big, hand-me-down shirt that makes him look even smaller than he is.

Suddenly Dean feels discomfort worming inside him, wriggling in his gut and making his heart beat faster. Jeff is definitely a kid, all silly and obsessed with kid stuff, and Sam's right next to him, obsessing as well. Jeff is a kid, and Sam's a kid, and what does that make Dean?

A kiddy-fiddler, that's what. He clenches his fists under the table, grits his teeth.

All of the discomfort and misgivings Dean's built up over the past weeks hit him like a brick wall.

How many times had Sam's innocence turned him on? His narrow hips, his smooth, sharp jaw, his nearly hairless body... and the way Sam kisses him all inexperienced and hungry. Thinking about being Sam's first time, in everything.

Suddenly he can't stand himself. Can't stand looking at Sammy's fourteen-year-old face and feeling that hot thread of desire that's always present. Can't stand being here surrounded by all these strangers, and feeling this way.

"You ready to go home?" he asks once Sam's finished his fries.

"I guess," Sam says with a shrug, and he says his goodbyes to Jeff.

Sam lightly elbows Dean in the side on their way back to the car. Dean doesn't bump him back.

 

Dean's stewing in his thoughts on the way back to Bobby's. Sam's tape is an unpleasant distraction, but Dean can't take it out, can't put in one of his favorites because he's not entirely sure he wants to tip his hand.

Sam doesn't seem to notice Dean's silence. He's looking at the art on the little fold-out from the cassette case and nodding along to the music, smiling.

As they near the road that'll take them to Bobby's house, Sam reaches out to turn down the stereo, then he places his hand on Dean's thigh.

"You wanna pull over?" he asks quietly. When Dean glances away from the road he sees that Sam's blushing furiously.

The hand on Dean's thigh burns like a brand.

Dean carefully takes Sammy's hand and places it on the seat between them. Staring straight ahead, he says, "Not today, Sammy."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam's hurt, confused look, but Sam doesn't argue. They say nothing else on the way home.

 

Later that evening, Dean next to begs John to send him on a hunt.

"You're not ready to go alone," John says.

Dean doesn't argue, but he does ask, "Can I come with you on the next one? I'm kinda going stir-crazy."

John levels a stare at him, doubtful.

"Sammy's okay here with Bobby, and I need the training, right?" Dean says. "I've taken off all summer, and I don't want to get rusty."

"Maybe, son. We'll see," John says.

 

When Sam climbs in with him that night, Dean's withdrawn and careful with him, keeping them on their sides, their hips apart. He stops Sam with a firm hand on his waist when he tries to get too close.

After only a short time of this, Sam draws back and studies him, his tilted eyes narrowed. Dean just looks back, almost relieved.

Strike that; he's completely relieved. Every swipe of Sam's little tongue, the feel of his thin arms and narrow ribs, these make him feel so young, and they make Dean feel shameful and dirty. He still wants Sam, deeply and completely, but he doesn't _want_ to want Sam.

Sam seems to sense that something's off with him. Furrowing his brow, he asks, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean says lightly.

Sam climbs out of bed without another word.

 

A few days later, Dean gets his wish. John takes him on a routine salt and burn three states over. For the four days that they're gone, it's like a weight has lifted from Dean's shoulders.

There's no Sam to follow him with his eyes, questioning and increasingly hurt as Dean rebuffs his advances with _I think I hear Dad_ , or _We're going to get caught_.

But he misses Sam, that's what gets him. He feels the tug of him from hundreds of miles away. The smell of the car is the smell of home, and no matter where they go or what they do, the smell of home has always been Sammy. His face, his laugh, the feel of his hair in Dean's hands, these come back to him hundreds of times, and he can almost feel the pull west, back to Sioux Falls, like a hook in his gut.

 

When they arrive home, Sam's presence seems to resonate in the air around him. Sam's whole and happy to see him and just as beautiful as ever. It nearly takes Dean's breath away.

It's late, and once Dean grabs a bite to eat he showers and goes to bed. It's been six days since the last time, but he knows by the looks Sam was giving him, he _knows_ that Sam will crawl into his bed tonight.

When Dean feels Sam warm up against his side, he sighs inwardly. On the first brush of Sam's lips against his, Dean whispers, "Don't you need to get some sleep? You've got school tomorrow."

Sam pulls back as if he'd been slapped. "What's your deal, Dean? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, I'm just tired," Dean lies. "It was a tough hunt."

It's a long time before Sam speaks. "You don't want to do this anymore, do you?"

Dean sighs, out loud this time. "It's not that, Sammy, I do, it's just... "

"Just what?" Sam's sitting up now, his shoulders stiff.

"Sammy, you're _fourteen_."

Sam makes a frustrated noise. "We've already been over that, Dean. It doesn't matter how old I am."

"But it does," Dean says his voice threatening to rise above a whisper. "I thought I could be okay with it, but I'm just _not_. I feel like a pervert just looking at you, sometimes. You're so young, and so inexperienced, and it _turns me on_. You're barely past puberty. You're still growing, for god's sake, and I look at your body and I freaking _want_ it."

"Dean," Sam says, all exasperated. "That just means you want _me_. Do you look at other kids like that?"

"...No," Dean says. He feels a crack in his wall of certainty.

"See, you're not some pedo, I promise. What we have is, is different from that. More than that."

Dean doesn't say anything, only watches the shape of Sam's shoulders and head, and tears himself up inside.

"I just can't, Sammy," he finally says. "Not right now."

"Screw you," Sam hisses, and he shoves himself out of Dean's bed.

 

So they play another round of the silent treatment, one that lasts until Bobby and John leave to help one of Bobby's friends work on a tractor.

There are already high spots of red on Sam's cheeks when he finds Dean in the living room.

"I knew you'd do this, I _knew_ you'd take it back!" Sam yells.

Dean jerks with surprise. "I'm not taking it back." He rubs the back of his neck. "I just feel like... maybe we should wait until you're a little older, I don't know. It doesn't feel right, to me."

"So we're going to stop," Sam says flatly. "After all this, we're doing to stop."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't know," he says miserably.

"You _need_ to get _over_ yourself!" Sam yells at him. "I know you want me, and you know I want you, and it's _that simple_! There's no one here to judge us but you, and I'm sick of you doing it!"

"I'm not judging us," Dean says, frowning.

"You are! 'It feels wrong,' you say. I know you're angsting over it all the freaking time, thinking, 'Oh, Sammy's too young,' and 'Oh, Sam's my little brother, I have to take care of him,'" Sam says mockingly, so angry he looks like he's going to burst from it.

Dean frowns up at him, watches him pace back and forth before coming to a stop.

"You know what, Dean?" Sam stares straight at him, his eyes burning. "What you're doing now, that's not taking care of me."

"I'm trying to keep you from getting hurt," Dean says.

"You're hurting me right now!" Sam says, his teeth clenched

"But I'm afraid this is going to--"

With a hard shake of his head, Sam interrupts him. "What? You're going to ruin me? Well, if that was going to happen, _I'd already be ruined_. But Dean, I'm not! Look, I'm fine!" he yells, throwing his arms out as if to display himself, to show Dean how fine he is.

Sam stands in the middle of the room, taking great, heaving breaths, then says, "This sucks. I don't want to talk about it any more. If you wanna stop, I can't do anything about it, and I'm tired of trying. I'm not going to beg for it." He leaves the room, his back stiff as a post.

 

It's food for thought, and Dean chews on it for a few days.

Sam's right; Dean doesn't look at other kids that way. Hell, he doesn't look at _anyone else_ that way. It's just Sam, because he's Sam.

He spends another few days watching Sammy from doorways and missing him. He sees Sam bite his lip while he's working on his homework, and he feels a hot, twisting worm of desire. He tests it out, tries to imagine feeling this way without shame, and he finds that yes, he can.

So he keeps watching Sam. Takes in his tanned skin, his long arms and legs, the graceful way he has of moving. His white teeth, his messy hair. All of it is gorgeous to him, and as he's still letting Sam's words sink in, he feels the lifting of shame from him, feels himself drawn to Sam without hesitance or discomfort. Because Sam is beautiful and bright and good, and he deserves to be loved.

And Dean, without a doubt, loves him.

 

He waits until John and Bobby go on a run a state over to pick up some more exotic supplies, then he goes to Sam.

Sam's lying on his stomach on the bed with a book, pages ruffling and hair blowing with the box fan.

"Sammy," he says from the doorway.

Sam looks up at him, then back down to his book.

"I've been thinking about what we talked about."

"Good," Sam says, his voice flat.

"You were right," Dean says.

Suspicion tightens Sam's face as he looks up at Dean again. "This isn't like last time, is it? Where you're going to freak out again and take it back?"

"No, Sammy." Dean walks toward his own bed and sits on the edge, facing Sam.

Sam sits up, mirroring Dean. There are only a few feet between their knees, but Dean fears that it might as well be miles.

"You were right," Dean says again.

Sam levels a flat stare at him. "So you're done being stupid?"

Dean laughs hopelessly. "Yeah, I'm done being stupid. I've got my head on straight now."

Sam's nostrils flare, and he digs his fingers into his knees. The silence stretches long between them in the hazy afternoon light filtering in through the blinds.

"How can I believe you?" Sam finally whispers, his eyes wet.

"You'll just have to trust me, Sammy," Dean says. "Can you trust me?"

Sam sighs, a long, wet sound. "I can try," he says, then looks up at Dean, his eyes scared and hopeful. "You really do want me?" Sam asks.

"I really do," Dean says, and it's the absolute truth. But it's only part of the truth, and he owes Sam the whole of it. "This is really hard to say, so please believe me." Dean runs his hand over his face. "It's not just that I want you. I love you, Sammy," he says, and he means it in every way.

Sam's face twists up in agony, and fear is a cold spike in Dean's chest.

"I just... " Sam wipes his face.

He looks so small and forlorn, leaning over his knees and wiping his nose with his forearm, and suddenly Dean can't stand to not be touching him. When Sammy's hurting, he has to be there, and even if Sam pushes him away it doesn't matter; all his instincts tell him that he has to try to make him feel better.

He moves to kneel between Sam's legs, tucking Sam in against his body, and he can feel Sam shaking.

With a surge of relief, Dean feels Sam's arms go around his shoulders, and Sam clings to him, pressing his face into the hollow of Dean's shoulder. "I love you too," Sam whispers. "I have for so long, before I even knew what it _was_ , and it sucked _so bad_ thinking you'd never love me back."

"Oh, Sammy," Dean whispers, and he digs his fingers into Sam's hair and holds him closer, rocking him gently.

Sam lets out a short sob, then rubs his face against Dean's shoulder. "It's so dumb that I'm crying," he says, then he pulls back and looks at Dean, his eyes red and streaming.

It's too much. Dean surges forward, cupping Sam's face, and kisses him, tastes his tears on his lips. Sam grips Dean's shirt and kisses back, desperate and messy.

"Love you, baby boy," Dean whispers into Sam's mouth.

Sam squeezes him hard, pouring all of himself into the kiss. Dean wraps his arms tight around Sam and kisses back just as desperately. It's like the first time, all the joy and the bright burst of wonder of new beginnings. It's like the last time, like they'll never kiss again, and this one has to _count_.

It's like coming home. It's comfort and love and devotion, and it's the only person Dean couldn't live without, loving him back. It's a kiss Dean will remember until his dying day.

Sam's lips are wet and warm against his, his tongue shy, then bolder, licking into Dean's mouth, and affection melts into desire. Sam is panting into his mouth, fisting Dean's shirt in his hands, his knees squeezing Dean's sides.

"Dean," he murmurs hazily, then he's pulling Dean's shirt up. Dean lets him, and the shirt falls to the floor, and Sam's hands are all over him, caressing and squeezing and exploring Dean's bare chest and shoulders.

Dean desperately needs to get to Sam's skin. He yanks Sam's shirt off as well, and then leans forward so that their bare chests are touching. A jolt of arousal shakes him, and he clutches Sam against him, hands spread wide on Sam's back. He kisses a wet trail down to Sam's neck, and Sam moans and tilts his head to the side, silently begging for more.

Dean will never get enough of the little noises Sammy makes when he's kissing his neck. Soft gasps and cries, and his body goes all goosebumps when Dean bites down gently.

"Yeah," Sam moans, wrapping a hand around the back of Dean's neck.

Dean presses wet, messy kisses against Sam's smooth skin, then scrapes his teeth along the taut tendon of his neck. He looks down to see Sam's stomach heaving and Sam's dick a hard line tucked against his hip, making an obscene bulge in his jeans.

He wants it. It feels so unspeakably good to want Sam without feeling guilty. He wants Sam so badly he's aching with it, and finally, there's nothing standing in the way.

Standing up, Dean lifts Sam by the thighs and lays him down on the bed.

"Wanna see you, Sammy," Dean says, voice low and thick.

Sam gasps, his flushed face going redder. He scrambles at the button on his jeans and then yanks them down with his boxers. Freed, his cock slaps against his belly, blood-dark and glistening at the tip. He barely has time to kick away his jeans before Dean's on him, his body completely covering Sam's.

"Kiss me," Sam demands, and Dean rushes to do it, groaning when Sam's hands clutch his ass to pull him closer.

"Sammy," Dean breathes against his brother's lips, and he thrusts, the inside of his sweatpants already growing damp and slippery. They rut against each other, open, messy kisses and hands roaming, touching any skin they can reach.

When Dean pulls away to kiss Sam's neck again, Sam groans, then says, his voice ruined, "Wanna see you too, _please_."

The _please_ will always get him. Dean doesn't think he could ever say no to Sam begging like that, all strung out and desperate.

Feeling feverish and dizzy, he pushes up to shove out of his sweats. Sam moans just looking at him, and he's back on Sam in seconds, and they both groan when their hard cocks slide together. Dean can't help the way his body moves; he fucks up against Sammy, rubbing them together, smearing precum on Sam's dick and flat belly.

Sam cries out loudly and wraps his legs around Dean's hips, ankles linking behind him, sweaty thighs slick on Dean’s sides. He digs his blunt nails into Dean's back.

"I'm gonna come," he gasps, thrusting up against Dean.

"Not yet, you're not," Dean rasps, and he pulls up and off Sam.

Sam is the picture of debauched, his face red, hair a beautiful mess, nipples pink and stiff, dick hard as a rock and leaking precum onto his tight belly. Dean moans at the sight of him.

"Fuck, Sammy," he says, and he sucks one of Sam's nipples into his mouth before moving lower to kiss his stomach, his tongue darting into Sam's flat little navel before he moves lower.

Ever since that first night at the lake, he's wanted to do this. It's been one of his most lust-fueled fantasies, guaranteed to get him off so fast he barely has time to explore it. To taste Sam, to get him in his mouth, to hear the sounds he'd make and feel his body move while Dean sucks him off.

He licks the precum pooled on Sam's belly, sharp and salty, then runs his tongue over the wet head of Sam's cock. It's even better than he'd imagined. 

"Dean!" Sam cries out, fisting his hands in the sheets and thrusting up against Dean's mouth.

Dean moans and kisses Sam's cock, open-mouthed, wet kisses from the tip running down the shaft, and he feels Sam swell against his lips. With a moan, he sucks Sam into his mouth, loving the taste of it, the steel under silk weight of it on his tongue, the way it jerks and swells when he takes a gentle suck.

Sam's so close, keening and panting and writhing on the sheets, his eyes squeezed shut. He moans, long and loud, hips thrusting up erratically, and then, "Dean!" he cries out again, voice breaking, and he's coming in Dean's mouth.

Dean groans as he takes it down. Sam's come is salty and bitter and perfect, his cock jerking in Dean's mouth as he spills himself out. Dean grinds down against the sheet, turned on beyond belief, and he thinks he could come just like this.

It's close, but he manages to pull his hips up just in time to stop. He wants more before he's done.

Sam's panting like he's run a marathon, and he moans when Dean kisses him, the taste of Sam strong in his mouth.

"Dean... that was... " Sam breathes, and then he kisses Dean again, mouth going soft and relaxed. He groans when Dean thrusts against him, hot and hard as a rock.

“I wanna touch you,” Sam says, his eyes heavy-lidded, pupils huge. Sweaty strands of hair are sticking to his forehead and cheeks, and his lips are swollen and red, and he’s the hottest thing Dean’s ever seen.

“Yeah, god, Sammy,” Dean groans, then he pushes up so that Sam can get his hands between them.

Sam stares down, licking his lips, and his touch skims over Dean’s belly and thighs before he runs his fingers along the thick length of Dean’s cock. Dean watches, mesmerized, as a thick drop of precum leaks out onto Sam’s already-slick stomach.

Sam grips him loosely and pulls, and Dean’s feverish with lust. He wants to shoot all over Sam’s tight little stomach, wants to paint his tanned skin with his come.

Panting, Sam strokes him, inexperienced and inexpert, and Jesus fucking Christ does that make Dean hot. He fucks into Sammy’s fist, moaning.

“Sammy, you’re gonna make me come,” he pants.

“Oh, god,” Sam whispers, stroking when Dean thrusts up, and Dean’s losing it. Heat twists in his belly slow and deep. Sam makes soft noises of encouragement, and with a strangled cry, Dean comes all over Sam, milky white against the bronze of Sam’s flexing stomach. The sight, and the sound Sam makes when it hits his skin, make him come even harder, the edges of his vision pulsing black with each pulse of his dick.

Dean leans down and catches his breath, his forehead resting against Sam's. Then he rolls so that he’s lying next to Sam, and they scoot around sluggishly until Sam’s head is resting on his shoulder. They lie there breathing heavily, letting the box fan cool and dry the sweat on their bodies, until Sammy reaches over the edge of the bed and comes back with his discarded shirt.

He starts to wipe at the drying come on his chest and belly. Dean’s not having any of that.

“Let me,” he says, grabbing for the t-shirt.

Sam says, “I can-- “

But Dean takes it out of his hand and wipes his stomach. He misses taking care of Sammy, and he won’t always be this sappy, he knows, but in this moment he wants to pamper his little brother, to make him feel loved.

After Dean cleans himself off, he tosses the shirt into the corner of their room and tugs on Sam until Sam’s half-sprawled over him. They lie in the the quiet, darkening room, and Dean rubs his hands over Sam’s back and into his sweaty hair.

Sam noses against Dean’s neck, then says, “Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Your ‘only-kissing’ rule was dumb,” Sam says, then lets loose a jaw-breaking yawn. “I’ve got some better ones.”

Dean smiles. “What are they?”

“You have to promise, _promise_ not to freak out on me like that, ever again.”

“Done. I promise,” Dean says.

“Okay. Next, you have to stop making me go to you all the time. It’s annoying.” Sam raises his head to look at him. “Touch me when you want to touch me. Get in my bed when you want to. I hate that I have to start everything… you start it sometimes.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “Done. Anything else?”

A little smile quirks up Sam’s lips as he looks at Dean.

“Kiss me,” Sam says.

Dean grins and leans up.

“Done.”

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! I had so much fun writing this, and a lot of the fun came from your comments and feedback. So thanks <3
> 
> So, this story is finished. I do have plans to, at some point, write some timestamps or codas or whatever, or little one-shots set within this universe. If there’s anything you want to see, leave me a comment about it, and I’ll see what I can do ;) No promises though! And I will say that I’ll be more likely to write things I like, like: first times of anything, misunderstandings, light angst, straight-up smut, teasing, and some more stuff I can’t think of right now. Just throw anything you want at me though, and we’ll see if something sticks :)
> 
> Again, thanks for reading!
> 
> (eta: For those of you who are concerned: if I write penetrative sex, it will most certainly be bottom!Sam. If he tops, I''d probably only write about it once, and I'd tag for bottom!Dean.)


End file.
